stay with me (sway with me)
by mortalsnail
Summary: Sometimes winning feels like losing. Tony/Clint, established relationship. Written for the picfor1000 challenge on LiveJournal.


**stay with me (sway with me)**

Sometimes winning feels like losing.

Like at the end of a hard-won battle, two long days of almost non-stop fighting, when it isn't just the bad guys'  
bodies lying on the ground when everything's said and done.

Too many civilians, too many rookie SHIELD agents who had no idea what they were really signing on for.

Experienced SHIELD vets who knew exactly what they were getting into and what they were doing.

Clint is in the bedroom, shirtless with his back to Tony as he tugs on some pajama pants. Tony watches the  
muscles shift and stretch under deep, lurid bruises that make him want to flinch.

But he can't look away.

Clint finally turns around, revealing the large bandage across his right shoulder where a robot's claw had dug  
deep into his skin. They stare at each other, and in that moment Tony wants to say a million things, wants to  
start a hundred arguments. Better armor, better arrows, better fucking sense of self-preservation,  
god_dammit_, Clint.

He knows better, though. In this case, anyway.

It finally registers that there's music playing from the iPod dock on the dresser, something Clint sometimes  
does to help him wind down after a mission. He doesn't recognize the song, can barely hear the words, but it's  
slow and smooth. Almost soothing.

Clint gives him a weary smile, like he wants to make a joke but doesn't have the energy to bother. "Coming to  
bed?" he asks, exhaustion tinging his words.

Tony doesn't outright answer. Going to bed does sound amazing right then, but he knows as soon as his head  
hits the pillow, he'll be out like a light.

This is the first time he's been alone with Clint in days. Tomorrow they'll probably be in for hours upon hours of  
debriefs. He needs this.

He needs Clint. Close and warm and _alive_.

He steps forward until there are mere inches between them. Clint doesn't say anything, just raises an eyebrow,  
and Tony knows all the questions Clint isn't actually asking. He can see the bruises beneath Clint's eyes, and  
he knows he doesn't look much better.

He slips his fingers into the waistband of Clint's pants to tug him even closer. He can feel the heat that always  
seems to radiate from the man, and Tony has to close his eyes against the relief that's nearly over-whelming  
him.

He sighs and drops his forehead to rest lightly on Clint's right shoulder. Clint doesn't move, probably isn't even  
sure what he should do.

Tony's hands move to Clint's hips, fingers gently rubbing the skin. Before he knows it, the music catches up to  
him and he starts to move.

Clint lets out a low chuckle at Tony's ear. "Are we dancing?" he asks, and Tony can hear the disbelief even as  
he sets his arms on Tony's shoulders and wraps them around his neck.

"Shut up," Tony mutters. He needs this, and judging by the way the Clint is starting to sway with him, he  
needs it too.

Clint laughs, because he's a jerk, but it's been far too long since Tony had last heard him do it, so it just  
makes something in his stomach flutter, and he grips Clint a little more tightly.

It's really not much of a dance, but they are moving together, the music flowing between them like calm water,  
peace settling into their bones for the first time in what seems like forever.

Tony opens his eyes to see the bandage over Clint's shoulder up close and personal. He lets out a shaky  
breath and impulsively presses a kiss to the gauze. This time Clint sighs, one hand sliding into Tony's hair as  
he nuzzles his nose and mouth against Tony's cheek.

"I'm okay, Tony," he says softly, and the words seem to reverberate through him, chasing a shiver down to his  
toes.

Tony lets out a helpless little laugh. "Yeah, I know," and he is _not_ thinking about a strangled gasp over  
the communicators, a pale face covered in blood, a prayer to a god he doesn't even believe in.

Clint simply pulls him in tighter because he has no words for this, Tony knows. They get by with touch and  
meaningful looks. Neither of them are good at saying what needs to be said.

They keep moving, a slow shuffle across the carpet. Tony doesn't know how much time passes. He can  
vaguely hear music changing in the background, but mostly everything is _Clint_ - his breath in his ear,  
his skin at his fingertips, his arms wrapped around him.

For a moment he can fool himself into thinking he could stay like this forever. He'd at least seriously consider  
it.

Clint eventually pulls back, forcing Tony to look back up at him. Their eyes meet and Tony suddenly feels  
grounded, like the emotional roller coaster of the last few days has finally come to a complete stop.

Tony gives him a genuine smile. "Asshole," he mutters affectionately. Clint's tired grin tells him he knows  
exactly what Tony really means.

"Can we sleep now?" Clint asks, already moving them towards the bed.

"Oh, of course. The sooner we sleep, the sooner we can wake up, the sooner we can take bets on how long  
it'll take Fury to twitch his eyebrow right off his face during the debriefs."

Clint snickers as he manhandles Tony into bed, curling his body around him. "I give it ten minutes."

"Huh, feeling generous, I see." Tony tugs the blankets up around them. "JARVIS, kill the lights and turn off the  
music."

"Since when can JARVIS control my iPod dock?" Clint mumbles into Tony's neck as JARVIS complies.

"Since always? JARVIS can do everything." Tony burrows his face into his pillow, shoving his hand underneath  
it.

"Can he make a quiche?"

"What?"

"He doesn't have arms, so he can't cook, right? I mean -"

"Clint?"

"Hmm?"

"Go to sleep."

Tony drifts off to a soft laugh and arms tightening around him.


End file.
